


Right? Right.

by phenanthrene_blue



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Crush, Character Study, Family Drama, I kind of hate the Brewers but Lo and Yeli are cute so, Lighthearted floof, M/M, Milwaukee Brewers, Nicknames, Non-Linear Narrative, Oblivious, Superstition, Unintentional Eroticism, set during the 2018 season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 02:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19122316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phenanthrene_blue/pseuds/phenanthrene_blue
Summary: Except for the couch. An old, overstuffed heap of beige covered in navy and yellow flowers, sitting there like some 1970s fever dream, it’s only there because Counsell wants it to be. Counsell’s mother had found it in her basement, thought the colors looked, funnily enough, like Brewer colors, and thought that it might be something fun for a new season.Counsell’s mother must be insane. It smells like old cigarettes and socks. The team hates it.





	Right? Right.

**Early in the Third Week of April, 2018.**

The clubhouse lounge at Miller Park is a big, carpeted room adjacent to the locker room. There are tables and comfortable chairs, and several refrigerators with drinks and snacks. There’s an air hockey table and televisions and video games. It’s not quite enough to completely mollify its regular inhabitants - a couple dozen young men wound up on testosterone and too much adrenaline - but at least it’s something. It is, as far as clubhouse lounges go, mostly unremarkable.

Except for the couch. An old, overstuffed heap of beige covered in navy and yellow flowers, sitting there like some 1970s fever dream, it’s only there because Counsell wants it to be. Counsell’s mother had found it in her basement, thought the colors looked, funnily enough, like Brewer colors, and thought that it might be _something fun_ for a new season.

Counsell’s mother must be insane. It smells like old cigarettes and socks. The team hates it. 

Except for Christian, who has taken to sitting there before home games while he plays Candy Crush on his tablet.

Today is no different, and Christian is no different. Ballplayers are creatures of extreme habits, some out of necessity and some out of superstition. About two weeks ago, he had first done this exact same activity in the exact same place, and then promptly homered in the ensuing game. So it made logical sense to continue.

_Continuation_ is an interesting concept, especially so early. Christian has been here, in and out of this unassuming clubhouse lounge, for scarcely over three weeks. The new-team nerves are just starting to subside, and he already thinks he likes Milwaukee more than Miami, simply because Milwaukee is _not_ Miami. Because it’s a fresh start, and because he’s starting to get to know his new teammates, and he feels like he’s part of something with potential, and that feels _good_. 

It’s thirty minutes before batting practice, and Christian is so into his game that he doesn’t hear Lorenzo coming in, shutting the door, and reaching around in the fridge.

“You’re going to get cooties sittin’ on that damn thing.” Lorenzo says, idly popping open the tab on his can of soda.

Christian half-snorts but doesn’t say much, in part because he’s trying to focus.

And perhaps, in part, because the person he’s gotten to know the least over the past month is probably Lorenzo Cain.

Christian really doesn’t know much about him at all. He knows that Lo is from down South, and after that, from Kansas City. He knows there was a messy hush-hush when Lo came to Milwaukee and his wife stayed behind in KC with the kids. But that’s a subject that nobody (and least of all, Christian) talks about or asks about right now.

And, while baseball is a true bridge across language and country and culture and pretty much everything else, he and Lorenzo couldn’t be more different. They both play the outfield, and they both were signed by Milwaukee on the exact same day, but that’s where the similarities stop. Christian is from a tight, privileged, well-off suburb of Los Angeles. Lorenzo was raised by his single mother in Georgia. Christian’s father loves him very much and calls him just to tell him so. Lorenzo’s father is dead.

Christian started playing baseball when he was four. Lorenzo didn’t start until he was a sophomore in high school, and only then because he didn’t make the basketball team and wanted to play _something_ anyway. Christian had shaken Lorenzo’s hand twice before this season. They’ve never even played in the same _league_ together. All of their differences seem further enhanced by the nearly six years that they’re apart in age. Christian is youthful, and occasionally dense, and perhaps a little shy. Lorenzo is…experienced, witty, and mentor-like, and extremely nice, but beyond that, Christian is unsure.

It takes him a while, but Christian realizes, when he notices Lo standing and looking around, that his silence might seem _rude_. “You know, you can sit here too, if you really want.” Christian finally says. “Not gonna hog all of these cooties for myself.”

Lorenzo sits next to Christian, all that difference and _distance_ reduced to nothing but the close proximity on this ugly couch, and today, they actually talk for more than a few minutes. 

***

**Heading Toward The End of May, 2018.**

The new pregame routine: he sits on the ugly old couch, and then Lorenzo joins him there. Christian has his tablet, and Lo has his soda, and they talk about whatever comes up first. They brag about whatever cute kid asked for their autograph that morning. They recommend restaurants to each other. They gossip about which ballpark has the worst visitor’s clubhouse. Then, most of what they talk about is baseball, and during those conversations, Christian lets Lorenzo steer the conversation, and he _listens_ , because Lorenzo has a lot to say. Sometimes he tells stories, or shares aspirations and memories. Sometimes he gives advice.

“What’s it feel like, winning the World Series?” Christian asks one day. _Lorenzo won with the Royals in 2015. Christian’s never been on a Major-League team with a winning record at the end of the season._

“You know it’s _May_ , right?” Lorenzo responds, disinterested. “We can’t talk about the World Series in May. It’s bad luck.”

“Hey, we’re in first.” To Christian, even first _itself_ is a foreign concept!

“It’s not even Memorial Day!” Lorenzo chuckles. “You’re asking what I want for Christmas next, right?”

Christian doesn’t reply. There are five seconds of silence, and then Lo takes a sip of his Coke. “It’s the best feeling in the universe, really.”

“Do you think I’ll ever…?” Christian starts to ask, and Lorenzo interrupts with his hands up.

“What a silly question. Yes. You _will_. And I will. Maybe we will together, but…not in _May_ , bro. C’mon. We just gotta play.”

There’s some huffing and scuffling in the hallway behind them.

“Shit, _there_ you two are.” Eric exhales, relieved, from the doorway of the lounge. “You guys are actually aware that it’s noon, right?”

Lorenzo’s eyes widen. “Whoa, when the hell did that happen?” 

“Right after it was eleven-fifty-nine, probably.” Eric sighs, and then, without warning, bursts out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Christian turns around, like he’s missed something. A _step behind and oblivious as always._

“I swear, I’m going to light that fucking sofa on fire one of these days.”

“Hey, hey, now.” Lo says. “This thing’s growin’ on me.”

Like in Miami, though, Christian’s performance is tied to his emotions. No matter how much he’s tried to separate his playing from how he’s feeling, he can’t really unlink them entirely. When he feels happy and relaxed, he locks in, and his OPS creeps up. When he doesn’t, his reflexes dull and he goes 0-for-5 on the day.

It’s like clockwork. Fortunately, Christian is fairly stable in that regard.

After about three weeks of his new pregame routine, however, Christian notices that he’s calmer. And as a result, he’s started hitting better.

_Much_ better. It’s an interesting correlation.

*******

**Some Really Hot Day in Early June, 2018.**

Then there are are home runs, and lots of them.

Christian’s always been able to knock the ball around, but now he feels like he can do it almost at will.

At first, he and Lorenzo start talking thirty minutes before batting practice. Then it’s forty-five. And then it’s ninety. And then time starts to become weirdly irrelevant, because Lorenzo, as Christian learns quickly, is a great storyteller, and Christian, his elbow resting on the arm of the couch, keeps getting lost in Lorenzo’s stories.

They go to Philadelphia, and they roll right over the Phillies, who play like they’re a double-A team. Christian hits _another_ home run. 12-4, Milwaukee. In the bottom of the eighth, some pinch-hitter for the Phils bangs a high, arcing popup. Orlando under-runs it and it ricochets, rather stupidly, off the tip of his glove. But Lorenzo is there out of nowhere, an answered prayer to interrupt the error. He slides in and swoops up the deflected ball quickly. And he _laughs_ , laughs out loud like it’s really no big deal, like it’s simply some little quirk of physics, and tips his cap to _himself_.

Christian does the same, from deep in right field.

It’s an incredible catch, and when they get back to Wisconsin, Christian watches the video of it - in forward and in reverse - it over and over. He admires the quickness of Lo’s reflexes, and the seeing the radiant warmth of his teammate’s smile makes him feel content inside. He’s fuzzy, like he’s had too much of the shitty domestic Wisconsin beer they serve at Miller Park.

The more he’s gotten to know him, the more Christian realizes that he really likes Lorenzo. They both deserve this. Making friends is good, and bonding with them is good, and team chemistry is good, and _this_ is _good_.

Perhaps he was foolish to think that they were really that different at all. They’re both on the same team by happenstance, brothers-in-arms, both Brewers, that’s all that matters in the end.

Right?

_Right._

Christian doesn’t think in abstractions or metaphors often, but he realizes what happened in the bottom of the eighth in Philadelphia might be a metaphor for something.

For the same thing before every home game. For feeling settled and _welcome_.

_For Lorenzo being_ there _, maybe._

***

**Nine Days Before the First Day of the All-Star Break, 2018.**  

It’s a sort of twisted dance, how many times the Brewers and Cubs trade off being in first. The Brewers are playing very well, but Chicago - with their money and talent and raw determination - just never goes away. In the home clubhouse, the Cubs have become this one-dimensional, villainous caricature. Christian thinks it’s funny; Lorenzo is much more serious, his hand on Christian’s elbow for emphasis while he explains (but perhaps facetiously, today) how _serious_ it really is.

Lorenzo touches him a lot these days, as people who have rapidly become close friends do. Their teammates roll their eyes sometimes, but Christian doesn’t mind any of it. Because Lo is his friend, and because the whole team is like that: all back slaps and casual hugs and arms limp around each others’ shoulders. Baseball is touchy-feely and sentimental. Personal space is always diminished.

They celebrate together in the outfield after someone makes a good catch, or after the last out of the inning or of the game. Christian, and Brauny, and Lo, all three of them standing in a circle with their arms in the air like it’s a strange summoning ritual. One night, before they return to the dugout, Lorenzo hooks his arm around Christian’s waist and pulls him close, for just a moment. It’s normal.

It’s normal when Lorenzo high-fives Christian after someone bats him in, and holds his hands for a couple seconds longer than he needs to to make his point.

And it’s normal when Christian’s hair is floppy and dripping everywhere when he gets back to the locker room from the showers, and Lo jokes, “ _God,_ you’re like a wet, shaggy dog running around in here _. C’mere.”_ and grabs a towel and rubs it through Christian’s hair affectionately. Christian manages to look past Lorenzo for a moment, and sees Jesús and Travis, who are trying real hard not to laugh.

Something in Christian feels at peace these days, and he hits home runs in consecutive games. _Again_. The Brewers win. _Again_. Christian is high from winning (again!); from feeling good about winning, from being in the hunt; from being a key part in the interesting and curious machine that is a team.

The next day, Christian sits back on the old couch in the lounge, the worn canvas scratching at his thighs where his shorts end. But today, a particular memory- one from the previous night - is nagging and hanging around, and Christian is distracted and can’t concentrate on Candy Crush.

_Lorenzo wasn’t playing, as he had been bothered by a sore groin for a few days. Christian had just struck out anticlimactically._

_The dugout was dark and hot, and Lorenzo was just standing in the corner. When Lorenzo saw him, he curled two fingers toward his face. As soon as Christian had stepped within his reach, Lorenzo’s hands were suddenly low on his hips, and he pulled Christian toward him, hard, with some actual_ force _. And Christian had sworn that upon contact, Lorenzo had pushed back against him. Their belt-buckles had clacked together. It was subtle, and Lo had whispered something really nice, but Christian didn’t fully acknowledge it and cluelessly asked “…_ what?!” _Then Lorenzo had laughed richly, his arms around Christian’s lower back. It couldn’t have meant anything, but something had whip-cracked through him, something new and sweet and sharp and uninterpretable and…_

Lorenzo walks up behind him and squeezes Christian’s shoulder gently as not to startle him. 

“Hey there, Yeli.” He says, now two hours before batting practice. “How you doin’?”

(Lo has many nicknames for Christian. Yeli, and Chris, and The Big Fish, and _baby boy,_ an endearment that Christian really wishes Lo would keep to himself. It makes him blush and he doesn’t know why.)

“Oh-okay.” Christian replies quickly. “You?”

Lo has brought his own iPad today, and sits down with it in his left hand and his usual Coke in his right.

“Thought we’d look at the video of your swing from last night. Not gonna lie, that was…really not your best work.”

It’s a comically bad swing, at a very hittable pitch, in the bottom of the first. When they first watch it, Lo stifles a pretty good laugh, and Christian punches him in the shoulder. Lo cuffs him back. It escalates to harmless hand-fighting.

“ _Christ_.” Brauny exhales sarcastically somewhere behind them as he monkeys with the coffee maker. “Would you two get a room already?”

It’s not exactly a novel realization. Nobody on Earth can be _that_ spaced out: Christian knows he definitely _loves_ Lorenzo. It’s the same way veteran battery-mates love one another; the way Jesús loves Orlando and Kratz loves all the guys in the bullpen; the way Counsell loves them all, like they’re just his twenty-five obnoxious adult children.

It’s deep and pure and untransformed - the same as all love in baseball is. It’s something Christian’s felt in some way ever since he was little. He knows it very, _very_ well, and there’s nothing wrong with it. But that’s _all_ it is.

Right.

_Right?_

***

**The 2018 All-Star Game.**

The laws of actual _attraction_ in Major League clubhouses are complex and ill-defined. Most interactions between young men in insular, high-pressure situations are, by nature, that way.

But it’s not like it’s unprecedented, or that the law of averages isn’t sometimes actually predictive. It’s not like a couple of magnets rattling around in a junk drawer won’t occasionally find one another with enough movement.

Guys who feel _like that_ about their teammates. Christian has heard of it happening. Some guys embrace it. Some guys are so wracked with guilt that it destroys them and takes their entire club down with them, and the whole thing gets hand-waved as a “team chemistry” issue. Some guys just…go with it and see what happens. Christian figured if such a thing ever happened to _him_ , that that’s what he’d do.

It’s just a thought experiment, though, because Christian has never thought about Lorenzo that way. Christian’s thought about other men before, sure, but Christian does not think about Lorenzo that way.

_Christian_ _does not think about Lorenzo that way_.

And then, one day, he _just does_.

He, and Lo, and Josh, JJ, and Jesús go to the All-Star Game.

The home clubhouse lounge at Nationals Park is bigger than the one back in Milwaukee. The room is full of generic 2010s-corporate office furniture that all seems to incorporate red and white into the color scheme somehow (it _is_ the home park of the Nationals, after all).

It’s two hours before the game, and, as always, before they talk, Lorenzo is raiding the fridge.

“The Hell?” Lo closes the refrigerator door flatly. “Do they _seriously_ not believe in Diet Coke in DC? Is this some sponsorship shit, or something?”

Christian laughs and looks up.

The one couch that _is_ in the lounge is too small, and when Lorenzo sits down next to him, Lo’s left knee bangs hard into Christian’s right thigh. Lo apologizes and brushes three fingertips over the side of Christian’s leg. Christian is quickly _too_ -aware of the contact, and maybe he flinches just a little bit.

“Whoa, you nervous, baby boy?”

_Lo didn’t specify what Christian might be nervous about. And God, he wishes Lo would stop calling him that_.

“Not really…but I don’t know.”

Lorenzo exhales slowly. “It’s gonna be great. Tonight. You’re gonna be great too.”

He smiles. Lorenzo’s smile is bright and genuine, and as if he’s been pushed, Christian feels himself fall off of whatever razor edge he had been standing on. They’re so close together, and Lo looks so friendly and _welcoming_ , and Christian suddenly wonders what that would be like to just lean forward, slide his hands around the back of Lorenzo’s neck, and kiss him.

It’s a thought that he likes. He likes it a lot, and he can’t even realize how _much_ he likes it, because Lo starts laughing again out of nowhere. Not that this is a surprise anymore.

“What now, are _you_ nervous?” Christian asks.

“I still can’t believe you took your _mom_ to the All-Star Gala.”

“Well, who else was I supposed to take?”

“You could’ve just _asked_ _me_ , yaknow.” Lorenzo says.

_It’s a joke. It’s got to be a joke. But it’s not helping Christian’s cause at all. He feels his cheeks starting to burn._

The game is loud and exciting. It’s a million degrees, and, like they do every year, the American League makes the National League look like a group of has-beens and rejects.

Christian hits a home run in the eighth, after the lights come on but before the stars are fully out. Christian is hot and sweaty and buzzed and feeling _amazing_ for multiple reasons, most of which he can’t quite put his finger on. 

Except for one. When he’s done running and the crowd noise subsides and his breathing starts to return to normal, Christian looks at Lorenzo from across the dugout. His heart flutters a little, and he feels _everything_.

But it’s all good. It doesn’t bother him. He’s just going to go with it. Christian is young, and now he is a _star,_ an _All-Star_ , and in this moment, he feels immortal, and perhaps these things don’t really have any consequences. 

***

**August 3rd, 2018.**

Above his locker, Lorenzo has a picture of his three sons. They’re adorable, with turned-up noses and big eyes, even more adorable than the children that ask them for autographs outside the park. Christian met them during Spring Training. Once.

Lo talks about them sometimes. His voice drops. His gaze goes wistful. 

He can talk to Lorenzo about just about anything, but it’s not his place _here_ , and his stupid _emotions_ have made everything even more awkward.

Christian never _forces_ anything, but he wishes he could _ask_. About the kids. About _what_ exactly happened when Lo left Kansas City. About why he never wears his wedding ring anymore on off-days.

Christian wishes a lot of things. His wishes are especially vivid, late after games, when he can close his eyes and stretch out on the old couch and not even care about the thirty-odd years of mustiness in the cushions.

He wishes he could see Lo’s boys himself. He wishes they could have another week off, a week where time would just grind to a halt, where he and Lorenzo could watch other games with other teams and go for a walk and have a drink in the Third Ward together. Christian wants to admire Lorenzo’s long eyelashes up close, and put his hands up under Lorenzo’s shirt, and kiss him for days, and fall asleep next to him, all company and comfort.

He’s burning up inside, more of him just going to ash with each passing day. Lorenzo doesn’t have any idea how much he’s _burning_.

Christian turns away in the locker room before the game. He’s going to pretend to look for the case for his tablet even though he knows it’s in one of his bags. He’s not going to stare at Lorenzo wearing nothing but his dark blue briefs, and study how amazingly well-put together he is. Christian is not going to spend the entirety of the day’s contest against Colorado fantasizing about how Lorenzo’s hot, bare skin would feel against his and daydreaming about whatever _delirium_ must be between Lo’s thighs. He’ll go absolutely crazy from it, like he’s a fifteen-year-old walking hormone again.

Of course, Christian does that _anyway_ , and it makes him even more psyched and driven. Marquez throws him a meatball in the sixth. Christian, hot-blooded with arousal and power, just about smashes it through the windows back behind centerfield. The crowd is half-drunk and rowdy, and he’s breathing heavily, _so_ heavily, his head racing and his heart thudding out hard into his arms where his veins are popping aggressively.

_It’s like being on amphetamines or something. The league should actually consider classifying Lorenzo Cain as a performance-enhancing drug._

In the dugout, Lorenzo whistles, all drawn-out like. “ _Damn_ , Yeli.” He says slowly. “You’re _hot_.”

He smirks, and slinks away to talk to Counsell and Brauny.

He’s not helping Christian’s cause.

_Again. This just keeps happening._ Why _does it just keep happening? Why does Lo keep_ saying _things like that?_

***

**August 22nd, 2018.**  

Milwaukee is supposed to play Cincinnati, beginning at 1:10 PM. For a 1:10 PM first pitch, Christian normally gets up at eight and gets down to the park as soon as he can (which is earlier and _earlier_ , these days, for obvious reasons).

Before batting practice and Candy Crush and the usual conversations with Lorenzo, however, there is one thing Christian must do. Ballplayers are creatures of extreme habits, some out of necessity and some out of superstition, so Christian absolutely _has to_ shave. It’s a holdover, perhaps an irrational one, from his Miami days, and he is also _not_ getting in the batter's box looking like he slept on a park bench the previous night. This generally happens around eight-thirty.

Except for today, because Christian somehow has turned off his alarm and fallen back asleep.

He doesn’t wake up until 10:27. Christian is almost never late, so _that’s_ a pretty good freak-out.

He hurriedly shoves things into his bag and shoves food into his face, a mad dash of fifteen minutes before he’s tripping and cussing and stumbling out the door and all the way to the stadium.

Christian stands in front of the mirror in the home clubhouse restroom, the one right next to the locker room. He peers at his reflection, at the annoying familiar stubble starting to grow. Then he realizes that, in the rushed disaster of the morning, he forgot to even bring his fucking _shaving kit_ with him. It’s still next to the sink in his bathroom, where he _had expected to use it at eight-thirty._

So he borrows shaving cream and a razor - a new, very _sharp_ razor - from Brauny.

And despite being as deliberate as he can, he nicks himself with it. Right on the _goddamn chin_ , a spot of red bleeding out into the white lather.

“ _Fuck_.” Christian dabs at the cut with his thumb for a second and continues. And then he cuts himself _again_ , drops the razor in the sink, gropes uselessly in the slippery mess to pick it up, and in the process, manages to skin his knuckle on the underside of the faucet.

“Oh, what the shit?” Christian growls at his own reflection. “Just, what the shit, man?”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind him, and a moment later, there’s Lorenzo, with a rolled-up _Sports Illustrated_ tucked under his right arm.

“ _Ooooh_ , boy.” Lo looks over at Christian, taking a couple of short, giggle-suppressing breaths through his nose. “One of _those_ mornings, huh?”

“Yeah.” Christian says. “Totally.” His face is half-done and he’s bleeding from several places, and Christian wishes he had extra hands: one to finish shaving, and two to keep pressing paper towels against his chin and the back of his right hand. He’s not seriously injured, but the fourth would cover his eyes in embarrassment.

“Mind if I help you out there? You, uh, missed a bunch of spots.” 

“I’m not thirteen, dude.”

But Lorenzo walks over, washes his hands, and leans close until his thigh rubs lightly against Christian’s. His voice is lower than usual. “Just worry about the blood, okay? S’like a murder scene in here. I got you.” 

Lo extracts the razor from the sink, and Christian feels himself cede control of the situation very quickly, watching himself in the mirror as Lo gets those spots for him, going over the areas where there’s still too much shaving cream. Lorenzo’s fingers are gentle and warm against his jaw and his cheeks, big and dark against his pale skin. The contrast is striking and _beautiful_ and Christian never _thought_ about that before, and there’s a spark caroming around and struggling to ground itself in Christian’s mind because _there’s something incredibly intimate about this and he wants_ more.

“…I think you’re good.” Lo eventually says, barely a whisper, moving his left arm lower until it’s snug around Christian’s waist. Then Christian turns his head, and finds himself face-to-face with Lorenzo. There’s less than a foot’s distance between them and Christian’s arms are frozen at his sides. He is so, _so_ attracted to Lorenzo, like this, that he holds strong eye contact, dark brown on darker brown, for as long as he can. Lorenzo’s eyes are dilated, Christian notices, just before his chest shakes with the smallest, almost nervous, laugh.

“I’ll see you up at BP, okay?” 

“Thanks.” Christian breathes quietly.

_Lo must be attracted to him in return. He just_ has _to be. Christian has to be right about_ something _for once._

_Right?_

_Christian has to do something - anything - before there’s nothing of him left to burn._

***

**August 26th, 2018.**

Today the Brewers play the Pirates, and today is the last home game before a trip to Cincy and Washington DC.

It’s also the day that Christian figures that he’s going to stop thinking and start acting. He’s not sure what he’s going to _do_ , exactly, but he’s awake half the night, running it through it in his head, and every time, every scenario is different.

Sometimes he thinks he’ll just have to suck it up tell Lorenzo how he feels, that he likes him as much more than friend and mentor and teammate. In other incarnations of this story, he just kisses him. Before the game, after the game, alone in the locker room - sometimes Christian asks first, and sometimes he doesn’t. But he’s probably way too _shy_ to do _that_. Perhaps he _shouldn’t_ be, because in most of what he imagines, Lorenzo feels the same way, and they both…go with it, and see what happens.

Or maybe Christian has been immature and imperceptive this whole time (it certainly wouldn’t be the first) and nothing is as it seems, and it’s all been a misinterpretation and miscommunication that will end less-than-ideally. Hopefully, Lorenzo will let him down gently and he’ll simply get an _I like you, but c’mon_ , _no, Yeli_ , or a story about how he’s working things out with his wife (or something else involving Those Subjects that Christian does not pry about). Or there will be a sermon about the value of friendship - and _nothing more_ than friendship.

And it’ll turn out that yes, maybe he and Lorenzo are actually really different after all.  

Maybe the worst that’ll happen will be that Christian goes 2-for-48 over the next two weeks, and that would be pretty bad, but he could deal with it. _Probably._

Or maybe it’ll end really poorly, and he’ll get a tacit _I’m not gay!_ , or he’ll get _avoided_ , or shoved threateningly against the wall, or ratted out in the clubhouse, or outed to ESPN, or - shit, other things that he’s pretty sure Lorenzo would never, _ever_ do, but he just _doesn’t know_.

Regardless, by the time he gets to Miller Park, he figures he’ll know soon enough.

He’s standing at the door to the lounge, glaring at the stupid _couch_ , focusing on the blue and yellow flowers until his vision fuzzes up around the edges. Lorenzo looks up from where he’s sitting on it, slowly rolling his soda can between his hands, watching Christian zoning in and out.

“You all right?”

“Yeah, I…” He starts. “Lorenzo, I…”

_He can’t do it. God damn, he just can’t do it._

“ _What?_ ”

“…I…I…think we might actually have a chance at making the World Series this year.”

“ _This_ again?”

“Hey, it’s almost September. Is it still unlucky?”

“…Maybe not.” Lo says with a flashy smile. “…and maybe you’re right.”

Christian can’t do anything before the game. He still can’t after the game, even though he’s calmed down after they win 7-4, despite the fact that he struck out three times. He can’t formulate any words, or thoughts, or actions, or _anything_. He just goes to the lounge, and he sits on the couch. Past 6PM, 7PM, 9PM, past Brauny inviting him to dinner, past hearing Moose and Travis clowning around in the hall, past a few shouts from a group of pitchers, and past whenever he figures sunset might be.

“Hey, Yeli.” Lorenzo finally says from somewhere to the left and Christian jumps, having gotten accustomed to the silence. “You know our flight’s in an hour-and-a-half, right?”

They’ve never been here this late before, here without their superstitions and an upcoming game to distract them.

Something makes him do it. Impulse, or maybe curiosity, or maybe just the desire to stop being nervous. Christian asks as soon as Lorenzo sits down beside him.

“Lo, what happened when you left the Royals?”

Lorenzo sighs, and it sounds mildly pained, and Christian immediately backtracks. “I mean, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t…”

“It’s okay. A lot of people know by now. When I left…” He starts. “well, Jenny and I separated. She stayed there for her job. The boys are there with her.”

Christian’s stomach sinks, and he almost regrets asking, but he decides to just let Lorenzo talk.

“At least I see them on some off-days now, and we have Skype.” He’s got that slight, mournful gaze off to nowhere again. “Good thing about it being twenty-eighteen, I guess.”

“I’m _so_ sorry, Lo.” Christian lets the palm of his hand fall onto Lorenzo’s knee.

“You’re a good friend..” Lorenzo squeezes the back of his hand and then returns it to rest between his legs. “Thanks for that.”

“You…can tell me what happened, if you want.”

“Well, we both decided it was best. I miss the boys, but it’s not like it was really ugly. Jenny’s wonderful. A saint. She’s such a good mom, and such a great friend. It’s just hard, because there’s something else, too, and it was something that I just couldn’t deal with anymore. I was tired of lying. To her, and to myself, and...”

Christian is certain he’s now making a very serious face.

“The truth is, I’m…” Lo turns his eyes at the floor. “I’m…well, Christian, I’m…”

“You’re…?”

“You don’t know?” Lo says, maybe trying to fight back a smile. “That I’m…”

“Know _what?_ ” Christian interrupts.

“…Come on, after this whole season together, you really _don’t_ fuckin’ know?” Lorenzo puts his arm around Christian’s shoulder and then draws him close, with both arms. “After all my touchy-feely shit? God, maybe you really _are_ that oblivious. Guess you need _proof_.”

And Lorenzo kisses him. It’s shy and very soft and slightly open-mouthed and Christian is receptive but surprised, and doesn’t know where to put his hands at all other than letting them fall limply on Lo’s shoulders.

“I…suppose I should’ve asked, first.” Lo pulls away the smallest bit, squeezes him and whispers hesitantly, the motion of his lips pronounced just below Christian’s nose. “This okay with you, baby boy?”

“Christ, Lo, _yes_.” He actually doesn’t mind the nickname this time. “Stop being so _polite_ for once.” Christian falls in, and kisses him harder, not even trying to think about anything else but how good it feels, both to _feel_ and t _o know._ Lorenzo pulls Christian down on top of him, their legs knocking together in the crowded space of the couch.

It is everything Christian imagined it would be. But at the same time, it’s nothing like that _at all_ , and that’s wonderful.

“Being real serious for a moment, though.” Lorenzo turns his head away a little. “We’re gonna have to eventually _talk_ about this, you know.”

“Well...we got about…sixteen hours until batting practice.” Christian presses a kiss into the bridge of his nose. “Should I get you a Coke?”

“Soon as we’re on the plane.”

***

**February 17th, 2018. The first day of Spring Training.**

Phoenix, Arizona. The weather is nice in Maryville, and as it’s February, the desert sun has, fortunately, not yet announced its ability to make everyone outside miserable.

Christian is still beginning to overheat, carrying a bag of bats around in his navy blue windbreaker. At least the whole being-too-hot-while-wearing-dark-colors thing didn’t change when he was traded.

The outfielders are supposed to start playing catch any minute now. A cloud rolls in for a few minutes, and it’s on the edge of too dark behind his shades when Christian finally sits down in the dugout to catch a breather. Lorenzo’s sitting next to him.

“And here’s the Big Fish himself!” Lorenzo says, clearly amused. “I’d shake your hand, but I think I met you when we played a couple of times. Or maybe that thing at Napoli’s - October of ’16? Ring a bell?”

“A repeat can’t hurt, anyway.” 

They shake hands quickly, and both sit back into the bench, watching the grounds crew wrapping up their grooming of the infield.

“Well.” Christian says, after some harmless time passes. “We’re here.”

“That we are.”

It is, as far as introductions go, mostly unremarkable. Introductions are beginnings, and the beginnings of stories are always known; it’s all the endings in life that generate the real uncertainty. 

…Not always, however.

Because no matter how hard he puts the full weight of his effort into it, Christian can never - and probably will never - separate his feelings from how he plays.

In 2018, Christian _destroys_ the month of September. He is Atlas, with his unbelievably high OPS and his .326 average and the second most home runs in all of the National League, and the weight of his entire team on his shoulders. The Brewers close the gap in the NL Central, and on the 1st of October, they play Game 163 in Chicago, and win the tiebreaker with the nebulous, unstoppable Cubs. Christian goes 3-for-4. Lorenzo breaks the tie game in the eighth. Shit, maybe all of this baseball-is-just-emotions stuff rubbed off on him, too.

Chicago whimpers out in the Wild Card game, and the Brewers sweep the Rockies and they _make_ it. Well, they make it within one game of the World Series, anyway.

The Dodgers win the Pennant, but Christian is the NL MVP.

After the bittersweet feelings about the end of the season subside, Christian and Lorenzo join Jenny and the kids in Kansas City for a couple days. And then Lorenzo - alone - flies out to California to join Christian for a while. A long while.

Maybe an eternity.

And Counsell decides that maybe, just _maybe_ , his mom’s old couch is going to stay in the lounge for good. Something about not fixing things that aren’t broken.

_Yeah. Emotions draw their own conclusions. Everyone_ knows how it all ended.

Right?

_Right._

**Author's Note:**

> More from the "Phen Clears Out Her WIP Folder" Collection, overlapping with the "It Pains Me To Write About The Cubs Being Eliminated In Any Context" Collection.
> 
> Because this mentions a character's family in a canon-divergent sense, I feel the need to re-iterate that this is total and complete fiction, written solely for fun. 
> 
> Thanks to littleblacksubmarines for the beta and for being perpetually awesome!


End file.
